Animal Instinct (3 page)

*****

The warm spring weather persisted throughout the weekend so much so that Massey purchased some food suitable for a barbecue whilst collecting the booze from Sainsburys. Later in the day their friends arrived, the previous night's differences were put to one side and the party mood prevailed. Apart from the adjacent neighbours, the guests comprised mainly of colleagues from Helen's school or the local police force. It was inevitable, however, that the main topic of conversation centred on the apparent murder of the mystery blonde.

At one point Massey managed to drag John Nuttall from forensics to a remote corner of the garden. “Anything interesting yet?” he asked.

“Considering that she was completely starkers, quite a bit,” he replied. “In actual fact she wasn't completely naked. There was a watch on her left wrist, a trendy Swatch-type watch with an inscription.”

“A name?”

“No, just initials. It read
‘All My Love Forever, A.D. ’
There may be some helpful mileage in the other interesting discovery. She was pregnant.”

“Really. How far gone?”

“Not absolutely sure. Maybe ten, possibly twelve weeks. Sexual intercourse had also taken place prior to her death, so you're possibly looking at a rape victim.”

“How did she die?”

“Still working on that. It's weird. All those lacerations and that bruise to her head cannot be attributed to cause of death. It's more likely that she suffocated.”

“Strangled, then?”

“Negative. Not a mark on her neck. There was little evidence of a struggle, which unfortunately would be inconsistent with the rape theory. However, there were minute particles of unidentifiable black stuff under her manicured fingernails and microscopic slivers of metal in the bruising on her head. I've sent them for analysis. We are also checking the bin liners for fingerprints and later in the week D.N.A. from the sperm samples. That weird smell is a mystery. I'm not sure whether it originates from her, the bin-bags or the site itself. I'll need to work on that.”

“Can you get me a head and shoulders mug-shot of her or is it too messy?”

“I'll clean her up in the morning and see what I can do. Do you want it with or without the bruise? I can brush that out if you prefer?”

“Oh, without. Can you sort it for tomorrow morning? Wainwright's called a meeting. So much for party recovery day,” moaned Massey.

“Why can't bloody criminals take a holiday like the rest of us?” commented Nuttall. “Anyway, I'll bring you up to speed as things progress.” He turned his beer can upside down. “It must be the heat. I fancy another beer if there's any left. How about you?”

“Why not,” said Massey. They re-joined the party to the sound of Robbie Williams and ‘Angel’. Massey appeared deep in thought, still mulling over John Nuttall's report. Helen shot him a glance, which forced him to suppress any more reflection on the developing murder inquiry. This was not the moment to antagonise his wife further.

*****

The dying embers of the barbecue were still smouldering as Massey cleared away the last of the food debris and carried the remaining plates through to the kitchen. The sun had set, the air temperature had cooled considerably and all the guests had departed except Chris Turner who was helping his sister with tidying the kitchen.

“Anyone fancy a coffee?” he cried out as his colleague headed for the lounge.

Massey closed the patio doors, collected some empty beer cans from the floor and joined his wife and brother-in-law in the warmth of the kitchen. “Good idea,” he replied. “How about a Cognac to help it down?”

“Do you two never give up?” asked Helen.

“I'll pour three out in the lounge,” said Massey. “Bring the coffee through and let's call it a day.”

A few minutes later, they were relaxing together with their drinks, enjoying a peaceful end to an exhausting day. Helen curled up on the settee. The two detectives sprawled in the matching easy chairs.

“If you had raped a young girl, why would you take the trouble to wrap her in bin-liners and carry her to the municipal landfill site…?” asked Massey, as though he was merely thinking aloud. “.…unless it would incriminate the culprit for the body not to be distanced from the scene of crime.”

“You've been distracted by this case all weekend,” remarked Helen.

“What did the ‘Nutter’ have to say?” asked Turner, referring to John Nuttall.

“There's still more to come from forensics. He reckoned that she more than likely died from suffocation. He also said that she was pregnant.”

“Poor child,” said Helen. “About how old was she?”

“Late teens, no older,” replied her brother. He turned to Massey. “You said that she was raped. Is that a fact?”

“It's a possibility. There was evidence of sexual activity before she died.”

“Maybe she was involved with one of those sex games which went tragically wrong,” suggested Helen.

“Oh yes!” said Turner. “And what sex games are those, then?”

His sister blushed. “You know what I mean. You read about them in the newspapers…people with fetishes and strange sexual predilections.”

“Hardly the norm here in Cheshire,” retorted her brother. “Here, it's more wham, bam, thank you ma'am.”

They laughed together, engaged in more small talk and gradually wound down towards a good night's sleep. Turner decided to stay over in the spare room.

*****

The role of pub landlord was somewhat diverse at the best of times. The licence holder of the Barleycorn required additional strings for his over-worked bow. Its location in the town had cast it into the melting pot of overspill overkill. Three quarters of the surrounding area had welcomed several years flow of migrants from Merseyside who had, over time, integrated with the local indigenous population. The remaining stages of urban development had been mindlessly allotted to a comparative handful of Mancunians. As there was always rivalry between the two North West conurbations, it was scathingly rumoured that the original town planners were fond of cock fighting.

The choice of suitable publican as genial host for a potential ‘O.K. Corral’ had to be a cross between John Wayne, Henry Kissinger and Mother Theresa. From humble beginnings in County Sligo, young Sean O'malley had matured into that intoxicating mix of grit, diplomacy and compassion, a combination, which had qualified him admirably for the position of mine host at the Barleycorn.

He was now over forty years of age, but still carried the looks, the thick black hair, the dark flashing eyes and twinkling smile that had set him apart during his teenage years. Above all, he possessed that charm, that unmistakeable Irish charm, irresistible to every woman whom he encountered.

At the age of fifteen dramatic events shaped his life when he was aroused from the carefree lifestyle that he enjoyed on his parents farm. On a misty November morning, he pulled back the doors of the barn to summon his father for breakfast. The pale streaks of a grey dawn filtered into the cavernous interior, revealing the barely discernable figure of Patrick O'malley by the steps to the hayloft.

Unable to move forwards, Sean cried out and sank to his knees. His father's feet were almost three feet above the floor of the barn. A stout rope suspended from an oak beam held the weight of his father's body by the neck. The ensuing Garda investigation arrived at a suicide verdict.

Within six months, Sean had left home to follow in his father's footsteps as a member of the I.R.A. The local commander had made it extremely clear to the impressionable youngster that the British were responsible for his father's death. It had been a reprisal for some minor fracas with the Ulster constabulary near the border at Enniskillen.

A year later, a British army unit arrested Sean near Newry where he was interviewed by the intelligence service. There he learned a third version, a verifiable version of his father's death, when he was informed that Patrick O'malley had been a collaborator with the British. His hanging had in fact been retribution by the I.R.A. for his treachery. The confused teenager escaped (believing subsequently that his freedom was pre-arranged by his captors) but, instead of returning south, he made his way to Belfast and took the ferry across to Heysham and the start of a new life in England.

At that time during the early nineteen seventies, Irish bar work was considered as a professional job compared to the perception of the role in the United Kingdom. Pressure from a government quango, the Hotel and Catering Industry Training Board was only just taking effect and forcing the major brewers to invest in training both management and staff in their outlets. The arrival of a young Irishman seeking bar-work was, therefore, at that time a guarantee of instant employment for the qualified applicant.

Melting un-noticed into the North West pub scene, Sean re-invented himself, spending the next two years between Manchester and Liverpool, building his reputation as a professional barman. During this period, he met and married Julie, a receptionist at the prestigious Midland Hotel in Manchester city centre. As brewers began to develop their managed estates by bringing in talented young couples to replace ageing tenants, it was no surprise that Sean and his young wife were soon headhunted to manage a prestigious new outlet in the suburbs south of the city.

The granting of a justices on-licence to an ex-republican terrorist would have been impossible without the intervention of MI5 who saw the potential mileage in ‘keeping your enemy close’. The Cheshire police were given the all clear to allow his appointment, on the strict understanding that he would be closely monitored.

The demise of Sean's career was as rapid as his rise to fame within the industry. That innate recipe of talent, good looks and natural charm opened not only doors to business offers but also to numerous philandering opportunities. Julie, his wife, tolerated the harmless flirting and occasional dalliance, but when, one day, she actually caught him in bed with an attractive blonde barmaid, she walked out accompanied by her two young sons and vowed never to return.

His problems were compounded when several weeks later his ‘bit-on-the-side’ announced that she was pregnant. Refusing to abort the baby, she threatened him with maintenance demands. Without any warning, she handed in her notice and disappeared never to be seen again. Without the support of his partner, who had returned to Manchester, he was forced to reconsider his aspirations in the licensed trade.

Following discussions with local brewers to review his situation, his continued employment was limited to managing a series of down-market outlets and consequently his career stagnated. During this period, he developed a reputation for an aptitude in handling the more difficult venues. The Barleycorn was tailor-made.

*****

The incident room at Winsford police headquarters on Easter Monday morning was alive with chatter about the unfolding events of the local murder enquiry. In addition to coverage on most TV news channels, the national tabloids allotted front-page space to the story despite the lack of available information. The police had released few facts, fuelling conjecture and hearsay, which became the basis for most storylines.

It was apparent to D.C.I. Wainwright that a statement was required based on some hard evidence. This became the theme of his address to the team assembled in the incident room.

“I'm asking D.I. Massey to head up the investigation. You will have seen from today's media that speculation is rife and may even hinder our enquiries. It is imperative therefore, that I can issue a statement based on the facts as quickly as possible. To enable that to happen, we need initially to have a positive I.D. on the girl and to be able to notify her next of kin. That is our number one priority.

D.I. Massey will also organise the team for other lines of enquiry and any new leads from forensic evidence gathered at the scene of crime. I shall be arranging a press conference for five p.m. today. Your deadline for bringing me up to speed is four thirty.”

Wainwright left the room, leaving Massey to update the team with the latest available details. John Nuttall had provided a reasonable enhanced photo of the girl, which he had copied and distributed amongst the team.

“Initially we will assume that the girl is local and so focus on an area radius of five miles. Apart from the photograph, there is very little else to go on. You will find statistical details printed on the back of the photo, giving height, weight, general description, et cetera. Forensics has also established that the young girl was pregnant. That being the case, I want every doctor, hospital, health centre and clinic visited to see if anyone recognises her as a patient.

We will also check the missing persons register. Another team can check out shops, supermarkets, pubs and restaurants. Even if someone recognises her face, perhaps as a customer, without knowing her actual identity, we can maybe use any relevant CCTV to trace her movements. D.S. Roker will determine the two teams to cover both areas. Any questions?”

“It's a bank holiday, sir. Not all premises will be open,” added one of the team.

“Follow up those that are closed first thing tomorrow including banks and post offices.”

“What about CCTV at the landfill site?”

“There are cameras but unfortunately both point only outwards from the gate. We will be checking those tomorrow when everyone is back at work. Any information, contact me immediately on my mobile. Just do your best.”

Massey left the incident room and headed for the D.C.I.'s office, leaving Roker and Turner to share out the workload amongst the team. Wainwright invited him to take a seat.

“All organised?” he asked.

“They're sorting it now.”

“We need a result quickly, unless someone comes forward and reports her missing. Having said that, according to pathology and forensics, we're possibly now into the fifth day and nobody has yet filed a missing person.”

“Has Nuttall spoken with you yet about the rest of his findings?”

“The report's on my desk. Surprisingly, there appears to be quite a lot to go on, with more to come. Knowing in which direction to take the investigation is the problem. That is why it is vital to discover her identity. Where was she when she was raped? Was she murdered at the same time? Is she local or passing through? Let's face it, she could be just a visitor. It is a holiday period.”